In Repose
by rscoil
Summary: The time has come for Christine to deliver on her final promise.


Christine took Raoul's hand as the daroga and his servant led them into the depths of the earth. It was time, she thought, as she toyed with the plain golden band sitting beside her wedding ring.

They soon entered the house on the lake, and she was surprised how eerie it looked in the scarce light of the lantern. Erik always took care to turn on the lights for her, to give a veneer of normalcy to his peculiar home.

But now it was as dark as the crypt his home had become.

Darius lit the lamps and the room soon looked much more familiar. The old daroga made his way to the bedroom first. After a few minutes, he beckoned Christine into the room.

He looked so frail, Christine thought. He looked almost lost in the coffin he called his bed. It now served its true purpose. Despite everything, she felt tears in her eyes as she approached the casket.

Not an angel, nor a genius, nor a ghost, she was looking upon what remained of a man called Erik. She knew he was dead, knew that he would have asked her how she could tell the difference between his living corpse and his dead one.

His presence was missing and the house was silent. She knew in her soul that the body before her was no longer the man who had terrorized her, even as he loved her.

A small table stood before the coffin. A stack of folios stood in a neat stack, the pile topped with an envelope bearing her name. The daroga stepped out, leaving her alone as she gingerly picked up the envelope and retreated to the organ bench to read the contents.

_My dearest Christine,_

_If you are reading this, then I suppose I am dead. The daroga thinks I am being dramatic, and any other time, he might be right. He can never know, of course, that I admitted he might be right about something!_

_Alas, though, my old friend is wrong in this. I have seen enough of death to know what it looks like. I believe my opinion can be trusted on this, and, if you are reading this, then clearly my suspicion was correct._

_But no matter._

_Tell me, Christine, are you crying for your poor Erik? Please do not. You have already shed enough tears at my expense, and I regret every drop._

_I know this note will not change things. You see, I am feeling very rational just now! Either that, or you are simply witnessing the blatherings of a foolish old man._

_I am sorry, Christine. For everything. I say this, freely, not just as a dying man hoping to gain forgiveness before he enters the afterlife. I have surely said and done enough things to prevent me from a heavenly reward, even with the forgiveness of an angel!_

_Speaking of which, should I meet the true Angel of Music, I will try to send them your way, though I suspect I will not find favor there…_

_Likewise, I am certain that your father will have a choice word or two for me._

_I do not know what tortures await me. I would only ask, when you take your place among the angels yourself, that you stop and remember your Erik every once in a while._

_I die, Christine, but you have a life to live. May you find happiness with your young man. Take him for a walk in the park on Sundays and shower him with every affection of which you are capable. Also, should he ever think of mistreating you, hypocrite that I am, I will claw my way from the depths of hell to stop him._

_Hmm, perhaps I really am dramatic._

_Nevertheless, live your days in the sunlight and fill your soul with music. I am sure that your new title prevents you from a career at the Opera. A pity. A tragedy, in fact. I ask that you maintain your instrument, at the very least. You have worked too long and hard to attain perfection, only to have it disappear from neglect._

_In regards to your voice, there will be a table of sheet music in front of my coffin. Of course, all sheet music in the house is yours. My funds I have split between yourself, the daroga, his faithful Darius, and the ever loyal Madame Giry._

_Where was I? Ah, yes, the music. The table is a collection of my best work. One of the folios is a collection of arias, each tailored to your most perfect instrument. Another, as I am sure you will guess, contains my completed Don Juan Triumphant. This, you may take and read if you wish, but remember, Christine, Don Juan burns. It is not to be performed aloud under any circumstances._

_The final folio I would bring to your attention is the most pertinent, as it contains my Requiem. I cried writing it, and I do not know why. There is very little to mourn and my death will doubtless make the world a better place for those who yet live._

_Yet I will argue that my life has had meaning! Yes, Christine! I have hidden myself away for years and years to write music the world will never hear. Even now, I bid you not to play Don Juan!_

_The meaning of my life, Christine, is you. You and that glorious voice. You have made me the happiest of men! Did you know, even as your lips brushed my abhorrent head, how much the gesture would mean? How can you have known, when I did not know myself! Ah, but you are clever and brave and intuitive! Your heart guides you to kindness. What is that like?_

_I have been so very many things in my life: musician, architect, composer, murderer, thief, extortionist, genius, angel, ghost. My favorite thing to have been was yours._

_The world has heard your voice, Christine, and in those few hours, the world heard Erik._

_I do not presume that one word of this will change the pain I have brought you, or your young man. That is as it should be._

_But go, Christine, with the best of what I am, and know what joy you brought to a man who believed the world had none to offer._

_I am tired. I believe I shall rest, perhaps for the final time. Perhaps you will sing me to sleep in my dreams._

_Yours always,_

_Erik_

Christine wept silently in her spot on the organ bench. She gently replaced the letter in its envelope and approached the casket.

She removed the golden ring from her finger and placed it on his long, spidery hand. It was cold. The smell of death that followed him always was stronger now.

Christine turned to the sheet music and retrieved the _Requiem _folio. She may have been a singer at heart, but her time at the conservatory had taught her a great many things. She settled herself at the bench, and with trembling hands blew life into the opening chords of Erik's _Requiem_. The great organ raised its mighty voice one last time and Christine's voice rose with it, delivering one last performance for their lost maestro.


End file.
